Twelve Pains Of Christmas
by Sita Z
Summary: How does the Enterprise crew deal with the many challenges of Christmas?


**Disclaimer**: Enterprise and her crew belong to Paramount, and they didn't give them to me for Christmas _again_. Ensign Bernhard Müller belongs to volley, and she kindly allowed me to let him participate in the Christmas fun. The lyrics of the song "The Twelve Pains of Christmas" belong to Weird Al Yankovic; the unabridged version can be found here:

http(colonslashslash)www(dot)lyricsondemand(dot)com(slash)w(slash)weirdalyankoviclyrics(slash)painsofchristmaslyrics(dot)html (copy&paste and replace the bracketed words)

(In case you're wondering, the rest does actually belong to me, LOL!)

**AN**: Big thanks to Gabi for betaing!

This was written as a Christmas present for one of my great betas, Romanse, and she generously decided to share it with everybody. I hope you'll enjoy it! For those of you who don't like Slash, this is **friendship**, don't worry, but please don't take No. 6 too seriously. None of them are married, so I had to come up with something ;).

Feedback is as always very welcome!

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_-The first thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me  
Is finding a Christmas tree -_

"What do you mean, it died?"

"Sir, I'm not sure how it happened... conifers are usually very sturdy."

Shaking his head, Jon surveyed the sad, wrinkled remains of the only fir tree within ninety light years. Crewman Chen, Enterprise's horticulturist and at twenty-two the youngest member of the crew, was close to tears, sniffling pitifully as she tried to explain what had happened.

"Maybe... maybe the recycled air didn't agree with it... sir, if it gets around that I killed our Christmas tree..."

"Don't worry, crewman." In the face of her dismay, he could not help but put on an optimistic, captainly air. "We'll work something out."

Her tears subsided, and she gave him a tentative, watery smile. "R-really? Sir?"

Jon nodded and pulled a tissue out of his pocket, handing it to her. "Sure. No sweat."

Leaving a comforted crewman behind, he left Hydroponics and headed for the bridge, the beginnings of a headache growing behind his forehead.

_Now where the hell do I get a Christmas tree in deep space?_

* * *

_-The second thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Rigging up the lights -_

"Now that doesn't look quite right."

Elbow-deep in a tangle of cables, Trip turned around to the person who had spoken and narrowed his eyes.

"What did you say?"

Everyone else had taken his muttered swears as a warning and backed off, preferably to the other end of the messhall, but not, of course, one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. The Englishman crossed his arms in front of his chest and tilted his head as he inspected Trip's work. Which, in fact, didn't look quite right, unless the aim was to tie all the decorative lights into one giant knot.

"I said it seems that you might need a hand with this."

Trip was about to make a rather rude suggestion as to what Malcolm could do with the lights, and leave them there until New Year's Eve _for all he cared_, when the messhall door opened and Travis walked in. Almost hidden behind the large box in his arms, he was happily oblivious to the thunderous expression on the Chief Engineer's face.

"Commander, when you're done here, we were wondering if you could do sickbay as well. I've brought more garlands from storage just in case."

Even several months later, the crew would only quote in hushed tones just what Commander Tucker had said in response.

* * *

_-The third thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Hangovers -_

Phlox surveyed the four crewmembers sitting, or rather slouching on his bio beds, wondering why humans insisted on ingesting large quantities of a substance that so clearly did not agree with them.

He picked up a hypospray and approached his first patient, Ensign Müller, who looked rather green around the gills, as the human expression went.

"So you said it was a pre-Christmas tradition celebrated in your country of origin, Mr. Müller? What was the beverage in question called, glühwein? Fascinating."

Müller closed his eyes as the contents of the spray were released into his neck. "Thanks, doc."

"I am curious," Phlox continued, walking over to Crewman Naime, who was pale and clutching the edge of her biobed. "The ship's database also mentioned a certain sort of pastry that is a traditional Christmas speciality in your country... I can't seem to remember the name, but it is made of dark chocolate, honey, cinnamon and aniseed-"

He broke off as the four crewmembers scrambled for the small bathroom, Müller reaching it first and just in time. Naime wasn't quite so lucky, and Phlox sighed. He knew he was going to see quite a lot of this during the upcoming festivities. Humans. Their convivial rituals were certainly... intriguing.

* * *

_-The fourth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Sending Christmas cards -_

"_May your holidays be merry and filled with warmth and joy..."_

Travis lowered the padd, his face pulled into a rare grimace. "Isn't that, I don't know, kind of cheesy?"

Hoshi snatched the padd out of his hands, her mood sliding down another notch. "Well, it's not as if I'm trying to win the Pulitzer Price. Besides, it's what it says on the card, not what I wrote inside. Do you have any idea how many of these things I have to write?"

He frowned. "Well, your parents, your brother... grandparents..." He trailed off. "That makes three or four cards, doesn't it? Not too many."

Hoshi sighed. If her list were limited to three or four, she would have been out of the messhall and in bed two hours ago. "And Liz Cutler's great aunt, Rostov's cousins, Malcolm's uncle Archie and two aunts, the official greeting card to Starfleet Headquarters, one extra for Admiral Forrest, one for Admiral Gardner, two for some Starfleet brass I don't even know, one for our Earth Today correspondent so she'll stop mentioning Trip's pregnancy in her news updates..."

"Wait, hold on, hold on." The frown on Travis' face had deepened. "Why are you sending Christmas cards to Rostov's cousins and Malcolm's uncle Archie?"

_Because I'm a sucker who can't say no._ "I'm not," she muttered.

"Then why..."

"They asked me to write some of their cards for them," she admitted with a sigh, remembering the puppy-eyed pleas she hadn't been able to resist. "They said they're not good at expressing how they feel on a greeting card."

"Uh huh," Travis said distractedly, a thoughtful expression settling on his face. He took a sip from his coffee and glanced at her list. "It's really sweet of you to do that, you know."

She sighed. "More like stupid."

"No, really."

Something in his tone made her instantly suspicious. "Travis..."

"And your cards are really good."

"You just said they were cheesy."

"I didn't mean it."

"Travis..."

He looked at her with a sad, begging expression. "Please, Hoshi, just for my grandparents and my brother..."

Hoshi buried her head in her arms.

* * *

_-The fifth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Five months of bills! -_

"You can't be serious."

Captain Vanik looked as unimpressed as he had the last time he had spoken with Enterprise's Captain face to face.

"I assure you, Captain, I am serious. It is hardly inappropriate to exchange services for an adequate consideration."

Jon sat down hard on the captain's chair, only to get up again a second later. "You call two thousand credits an 'adequate consideration'? For a small detour to Earth and, what, four cubic meters of cargo space?"

Vanik's voice dropped a few more degrees. "The "small detour" to Earth cost us two days, and the cargo consists of irrelevant trinkets your relatives are sending you in observation of a Terran holiday. It is not the responsibility or the obligation of the Vulcan fleet to run errands, Captain."

T'Pol spoke up before Jon could say anything in response. "The _T'Mur_ is headed towards these coordinates anyway. It is illogical to charge such a large sum for a two-day delay."

"_Snertaumu'a," _Vanik replied, and even though Jon had no idea what he'd said, Hoshi's face pretty much told him all he needed to know.

"Listen," he began, struggling to keep his voice calm. "It's only fair that you want something in return for your troubles. I'm just saying that two thousand credits isn't exactly-"

"I expect Starfleet to transfer the amount to the Vulcan consulate in San Francisco," Vanik interrupted him coolly. "Otherwise I do not think that we will be able to spare the time to dock with Enterprise and deliver the cargo. Good day, Captain."

Stars reappeared on the main screen as he cut the connection. Jon shook his head, sitting down heavily on his chair. "I don't believe this."

"I could contact my superiors, sir." T'Pol's tone was almost apologetic. "I do not believe that our diplomats would condone Vanik's actions."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to arrive at the rendezvous coordinates only to discover that there was an oh-so-accidental incident with an airlock, and our Christmas presents are drifting somewhere between Rigel and Centauri Prime."

T'Pol's eyebrows shot up. "I hardly believe Captain Vanik would resort to such... drastic methods."

"Well, he did resort to holding our presents ransom, didn't he?"

For a moment, his mind conjured the image of the Grinch crouching in the _T'Mur's_ captain's chair, clutching a bag with Christmas presents and chuckling evilly, and it lifted his mood – a little.

"Hoshi," he said with a sigh. "Get me Admiral Forrest."

After all, he didn't want a mutiny on his hands.

* * *

_-The sixth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Facing my in-laws -_

"Malcolm, please."

"Trip, I'm afraid-"

"Please!"

"I have to be back in the armory in a few minutes. The... the targeting scanners need overhauling, and-"

"I'll help you overhaul them tomorrow, how 'bout that?"

"Trip, I..."

"They've been practising for weeks, Malcolm! It won't take long, I promise!"

Malcolm heaved a sigh. They had reached Trip's quarters, and he knew that he wouldn't get past that door; not when Trip was as determined as he was now. But if he had to grin and bear it – quite literally, most likely - he could at least get something out of it.

"You'll help me overhaul the targeting scanners?"

A grin lit Trip's face at what he assumed was Malcolm giving in. "Sure."

"And sign my proposal about necessary changes in the power distribution?"

Trip's grin fell a little. "Deal."

"And talk to the Captain about a new security protocol for away missions?"

Trip didn't seem too happy, but he nodded. "Um, okay. If there's time."

Malcolm tilted his head, considering. In fact, he'd become resigned several minutes ago that there was no way around giving in to the engineer's pleas, but Trip didn't need to know that. Eventually, he sighed and gestured at Trip's door. "Well, lead the way, Commander."

"Great! Thanks, Malcolm!"

With a sigh, Malcolm followed Trip into his cabin. The engineer had already taken a seat in front of his desk, and nodded at Malcolm to pull up the second chair.

"I promise, this'll only take a few minutes."

_It had better_, Malcolm thought, a feeling of dread rising in his stomach. He'd never been good at this kind of thing, and the fact that there were more than ninety light years between him and the people in question didn't help much. He'd still have to face them.

Biting the inside of his lip, he watched as Trip entered a combination of numbers into his computer and hit the call button.

"Relax, Mal. They're gonna love you."

Malcolm nodded valiantly, although he highly doubted that anyone could find him lovable just from seeing him on a screen.

Trip's call was connected, and the face of a woman appeared on the monitor. Her blond hair was streaked with a few gray strands, but her blue eyes were instantly familiar. They lit up when she saw them, leaving no doubt where Trip had inherited his smile. "Trip, honey! We've been waitin' for you to call!"

"It's great to see you, mom." Trip smiled and indicated for Malcolm to lean closer. "Mom, this is Malcolm. He's lookin' forward to the show."

Malcolm smiled politely, although he wasn't sure he wanted to know what "show" Trip was talking about. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tucker."

"Oh, honey, call me Susan. Great you could make it! I'd love to chat a little more, but it sounds like they're getting impatient back there." She turned around and waved, and suddenly the screen was filled with at least ten children of various ages, all scrambling for a better look.

"Uncle Trip! Hi, Uncle Trip!"

"Hey, great to see y'all!" Trip seemed no less excited than the children. "Malcolm, these are my nephews and nieces and my cousins' kids. It'd take all day to introduce them, so let's just say they're all Tuckers."

Malcolm had concluded as much; there was an obvious family likeness between the children and the engineer, and at least two of the boys looked like miniature Trips.

"Guys, this is my friend Malcolm. He's been lookin' forward to meetin' y'all!"

"Hi, Malcolm!" They waved at the screen, pushing each other aside until Susan Tucker raised a hand.

"Now, how 'bout we get started? "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", like we practised!"

Stumbling out of Trip's cabin an hour later, Malcolm went straight to the armory and activated his most advanced target practice program, firing until the power cell of the pistol was almost empty. The Tuckers were a very nice family, but their many talents did not extend to Christmas caroling.

* * *

_-The seventh thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Donations! -_

T'Pol settled on her meditation pillow and rested her eyes on the still flame in front of her. A stark contrast to the bright, artificial light of the ship, the soft glow of her meditation candles soothed her eyes and allowed her to focus. She concentrated on a simple mantra, gathering her thoughts. She was relieved to be able to retire for the day. At this time of the year, it was even more strenuous than usual to cope with the illogical behavior of her human crewmates. Just today, she had witnessed a bewildering exchange involving Crewman Cutler, Ensign Hart and a twig of mistletoe. At first, she had thought that there would be an altercation between the two, but even Lieutenant Reed had not interfered, and eventually the situation had resolved itself, quite surprisingly so. She had not understood, but no one seemed to find it necessary to comment on the incident, and so she hadn't either. She had made a point of giving the mistletoe a wide berth, though.

Deliberately, she freed her mind of the day's events, focusing on the flame and her mantra. She felt her thoughts calming, her control reasserting itself, and was about to enter the first stage of her meditation exercise when her door signal chimed. Pausing, she considered whether it would be logical to ignore the intruder – they could contact her over the comm if it was urgent – then decided that it was not. A small delay would not make any difference in the grand scheme of things.

"Come," she called, her meditation robe rustling softly as she rose from her pillow. The door slid aside, and, to her slight surprise, revealed Crewman Cutler and Ensign Sato, both wearing strange red hats with white trimming and holding boxes in their hands.

"Good evening, Subcommander," Ensign Sato said, and, on noticing T'Pol's attire, "I hope we didn't disturb you."

"You didn't," T'Pol replied; not quite truthfully, but she knew that it was the expected answer. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, yes, you can." Liz Cutler smiled – a "winning" smile, a human might have called it. "I'm not sure if you've heard about the Christmas party, but it's turning out to be quite an event."

"Indeed."

Sato nodded. "Yes, the decorating team's been running themselves ragged, and Chef's outdoing himself with the menu."

"That is commendable," T'Pol said, wondering why they were telling her this. "I am sure their efforts will be much appreciated."

"Oh, they will." Liz Cutler beamed. "In fact, we thought it might be nice if they got a little something in return for their troubles."

She shifted her stance a little, and T'Pol heard something rattle inside the box.

"I am sure they will be pleased," she said, her confusion growing. "Was there something you wanted, Ensign, Crewman?"

Sato and Cutler exchanged slightly hectic glances. "Um," Sato began again, "we thought it might be nice if everybody would, you know..."

Uncharacteristically, she trailed off, leaving her sentence unfinished. T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "I am afraid I do not understand."

For some reason, Cutler's face assumed a rosy hue. "Well, it's just that we thought..."

"Yes, Crewman?"

"You know..." Sato glanced down at her box, and suddenly T'Pol understood, both the purpose of their visit and the reason for their strange behavior.

"Of course," she said. "I am afraid I do not possess any currency, but I shall transfer an appropriate amount to the ship's general budget."

"That's great!" Both Sato and Cutler seemed very relieved. Cutler reached into a gold-embroidered bag T'Pol had not noticed before, and handed her a cookie in the shape of a star. "Thank you, Subcommander!"

T'Pol took the cookie and looked after the two women for a moment before she returned to her quarters. Dimming the lights, she sat back down on her meditation pillow and refocused on the flame, her mind returning to her meditation exercise.

That was when the doorsignal chimed again.

* * *

_-The eighth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Daddy, I want some candy! -_

He knew they would be coming tonight.

His shift had ended two hours ago, but he hadn't left the galley; in fact, he had told his relief that he'd stay on duty for a while, and the ensign in question had left quickly, sensing that he was not, repeat, not in a good mood.

But he would be. Oh yes, he would be, once he had caught them. They would pay for their pilferage, if he had anything to say about it.

The lights dimmed so that the intruders wouldn't spot him, he sat in a corner, his eyes on the door, his hand gripping his marble rolling pin. He'd won it at the awards for the best international cuisine, and it had often come in handy since. It might again tonight.

There was a noise at the door, and he straightened up a little, his fingers tightening on the marble handle. He'd known that they would come, and now that they had, he had to catch them red-handed. Which meant that he had to wait. A streak of light appeared on the floor as the door opened and two dark silhouettes snuck inside, throwing nervous glances around the room. They didn't see him, and after a moment's pause stealthily made their way over to the larder. He heard them whispering quietly among themselves, then the larder door slid aside. With a last quick glance over their shoulders, they slipped inside, and he heard the distinct sound of jars and boxes being opened.

It was time. In a few large strides, he was across the room, slamming his hand down on the light switch while he locked the door with his own private code. Then, he turned around, rolling pin ready in hand.

Inside the larder, Commander Tucker and Ensign Mayweather stood amid various cookie jars and boxes full of candy, eyes wide and mouths gaping. Tucker was so shocked that he didn't even pull his hand out of the jar with the pecan crescents.

"Ch-chef," he stuttered. "We... um, we... I mean, we didn't..."

He said nothing, and only narrowed his eyes a little in response.

"We'll put them back," Mayweather said quickly, and, as if to prove his words, stuffed a handful of chocolate fudge back into its box. "We didn't eat any, see?"

He still said nothing, his hand stroking over the smooth marble of the rolling pin as he watched them return the stolen goods to their rightful place.

"Um, well, we... we'll be off then, okay?" Tucker's voice had assumed a slightly higher pitch than usual. "If that's o-"

"No, that is not "okay", Commander." He stepped a little closer, satisfied when he saw them exchange a panicked look. "Do you have any idea how many hours my team and I slave over the micro-heaters to provide enough Christmas cookies for the crew? Do you know what would happen if everyone decided that they needed a little extra supply, and came here to raid my larder?"

Tucker and Mayweather looked suitably guilty, but it wasn't enough; not by far. "I think you need to understand just how hard we worked for the cookies and chocolates you've stuffed yourselves with."

Mayweather glanced at the door as if debating a possible escape, but of course that was not going happen.

"Oh no, Ensign. You are not going to leave until you understand exactly what I'm talking about."

Tucker gave him a nervous look. "You mean-"

"Indeed I do, Commander. You'll find all the ingredients in the cupboards; baking trays are in the drawers under the micro-heaters. Feel free to proceed whenever you're ready."

Tucker and Mayweather seemed to consider protesting, but eventually, they trudged over to where he had laid out two aprons for them. Allowing himself a small smile, he sat back down, laying his rolling pin on the table where they couldn't help but see it.

It was going to be a long night, and he intended to enjoy every minute of it.

* * *

_-The ninth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:_

_Finding parking spaces -_

"There's a clearing about five hundred meters east. Take her down there."

"Aye, sir."

Jon watched as Malcolm took the shuttlepod into an elegant descent. The clearing didn't leave much space for landing maneuvers, but it would have to do. The planetary government had been very insistent that the alien visitors could enter the forest for all they cared, but were not to set one foot into the cities. Needless to say, Jon hadn't even tried to invite their diplomats for a tour of Enterprise. Under normal circumstances, he would have broken orbit straight away after his little "chat" with the government officials, but, sadly, these weren't normal circumstances. He was a man on a mission, and this was an emergency.

Despite the cramped conditions, Malcolm brought the shuttle down expertly; there wasn't so much as a jolt as he set it down.

Jon clapped him on the shoulder, then remembered that Malcolm didn't like to be patted by superior officers and quickly pulled his hand back. "Good work."

"Thank you, sir." Malcolm got up from the pilot chair and quickly went over to the hatch so he'd be the first to leave the shuttle. Jon frowned, but let it go. He wasn't going to get into another discussion with his Armory Officer whether or not it was reasonable to assume that they would be attacked first thing after leaving the shuttle.

Cold air filled the shuttle as Malcolm climbed through the hatch, and Jon was glad that he'd insisted they put on their isolated jackets. The snow crunched under his boots as he followed Malcolm outside and took a look around. All he could see were the snow-covered clearing and tall, dark trees silhouetted against the gray sky. With any luck, they'd be able to accomplish their mission and return to the ship before they ran into any trouble.

_You're starting to think like Malcolm_, Jon chided himself. His less than pleasant conversation with the condescendent officials had put a damper on his usual enthusiasm, and he was looking forward to leaving this planet behind for good.

Once they had gotten what they'd come for, of course.

"See one you like?" he asked Malcolm, who had started to examine a few smaller trees close to the edge of the clearing.

"How about this one, sir?"

Jon looked at the tree in question. It wasn't quite the fir tree he'd had in mind, but then, he knew that he couldn't realistically expect to find one of those on an alien world. The tree Malcolm had suggested was about two meters in height, had sweeping, bow-shaped branches and blue, needle-like leaves.

He nodded. "Looks good. We'll take it."

Three minutes later, Malcolm had cut down the tree with a well-aimed beam from his phase pistol, and they began the process of lugging it back to the shuttlepod. Jon smiled at the thought of Crewman Chen, who would no doubt be relieved that they'd found a replacement for the deceased Christmas tree. Porthos would also appreciate the tree, if for different reasons. He'd have to keep a close eye on him to avoid last year's little... incident.

"You! Hey, you!"

An angry male voice brought him back to the present. Malcolm had instantly dropped his end of the tree and whirled around to where the voice had come from, phase pistol drawn and ready.

"Easy, Malcolm." Jon laid a hand on the Lieutenant's arm. "I don't think he's armed."

In fact, the man coming towards them didn't look particularly dangerous, though very annoyed. He was quite old, if his wrinkled face and grayish beard were anything to go by, and his antennae bobbed furiously as he trudged towards them through the snow, dragging the hem of his thick, ragged coat behind him.

"What the-" the UT crackled indignantly – "-do you think you're doing?"

"We're visitors," Jon began. "We're from the starship Enterprise, and we're on a mission of-"

"I don't care a-" –crackle- "-what your mission is! Can't you read?"

Jon followed the man's accusing finger, and his eyes fell on a large sign with alien letters which he had somehow managed to overlook until now.

Malcolm made a few quick adjustments to the UT, switching it into visual mode. "No littering, no camping, no defecating, no engaging in indecent behavior... I don't think we did any of that."

"Here, seventh line down!" The man jabbed his finger at the sign. "No parking of vehicles of any size or type! So, what do you call _that_?"

Triumphantly, he pointed at the shuttlepod.

"Look," Jon began again, "your government gave us permission to enter this forest and take one of the trees-"

"Aren't you listening to me? I don't care about the tree, I care about your spacecraft sitting there, right in the middle of the no-parking zone!"

"A no-parking zone in the middle of a forest?" Malcolm asked. Some of his sarcasm must have been mirrored in the translation, for the old man's face assumed a dangerous shade of green.

"Listen here, young man, there's been a no-parking zone here ever since I became watch officer forty years ago, and we certainly don't make any exceptions for brash aliens who are so full of themselves that they-"

"All right, all right," Jon held up a hand. "We're very sorry we didn't notice your sign, and if you'll excuse us, we'll be gone in a-"

"That's not going to do." The man gave them a dark look, pulled out a paper pad and began to scribble something down. Then, ignoring their incredulous looks, he plodded over to the shuttlepod and slapped a piece of paper onto the front window.

"You've got fifty hours to pay the fine. If you fail to do so, there'll be a higher fine and a period of confinement for two days. Good day to you."

With that, he disappeared down the forest path where he had come from. Jon looked after him, not sure whether to laugh or to cry. Finally, he decided against both and helped Malcolm haul the tree into the shuttle instead.

"Well, at least we got what we came for."

"Along with an alien parking ticket," Malcolm said with a smirk, and Jon sighed. He wasn't looking forward to explaining that one to the government officials.

* * *

_-The tenth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
"Batteries Not Included" -_

Trip looked around the messhall, pleased with what he saw. The windows were framed with red and green lights, the ceiling adorned with softly glowing golden stars. The tree Malcolm and Jon had brought back from the planet was decorated with brightly lit garlands, and he'd even managed to adjust the quality of the light so that it almost resembled real candle glow. All in all, he thought he had done a pretty good job.

"I've never understood why Americans feel driven to decorate every single household appliance with blinking lights at Christmas," a dry voice said behind him, and he turned around. Malcolm was standing there, one eyebrow raised T'Pol-style as he surveyed the glowing messhall.

"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch." Trip's remark earned him a narrow-eyed stare the sort of which he hadn't seen since the targeting scanners had last gone offline.

"You're in a good mood, Mal," he observed and went over to one of the tables where the galley staff had put a plate of refreshments for the decorating team. He picked one, and discovered that it was one of the cookies he and Travis had been coerced into baking when Chef had caught them stealing from the larder. It tasted surprisingly good. "Wanna tell me what's up?"

"I've been recruited," Malcolm said sourly, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. "What's wrong with these biscuits?" He held up one of Travis' peppermint snowballs. "They look like they've been sneezed on."

Trip decided to ignore the slur on Travis' baking efforts. "Who recruited you?"

"Hoshi and her caroling group," Malcolm said. "They want me to join them at the party."

Trip blinked. "You."

Malcolm nodded dejectedly. "In fact, they threatened to skip target practice if I didn't agree. They said they didn't have enough male voices yet."

"They asked _you_," Trip repeated, still not quite able to believe it. "But you don't sing."

Malcolm muttered something, his ears reddening.

"Scuse me?"

"I said I was in the school choir for several years."

"So how did Hoshi find out?"

Malcolm's blush deepened. "She... well, she overheard me when I was... singing."

At that, Trip sat down hard on one of the chairs. "You were _singin'_? Why?"

"I didn't think anyone would hear me."

"So... you do sing?"

"Sometimes." Malcolm's face was positively glowing now. "But only when no one's listening. Which is exactly why I don't want to take part in any caroling."

Trip couldn't quite suppress his emerging grin. "So where were you when Hoshi overheard you?"

Malcolm sighed. "In the armory."

"You were in the armory, singin' all by yourself? What were you singin'?"

Malcolm glowered at him. "You're supposed to be helping me, not make fun of my situation."

"Sorry." Trip was still occupied with the idea of Malcolm warbling away in the armory. "Could be fun, though. I mean, if you're good, why not share it?"

"But I don't want to share it. In fact, I've been considering not to attend the party at all."

"No way, Malcolm. Nuh-uh. I'll drag you there by the hair if I have to."

"But-"

A loud crackling interrupted him. It seemed to be coming from the window, and Trip turned his head just in time to see the lights flickering wildly, before they went out one by one. The stars on the ceiling were next, expiring one after the other. The garlands adorning the Christmas tree flickered a little longer, but eventually they, too, succumbed to whatever had killed the other lights.

"Goddammit!" He jumped up. "I don't believe this!"

Somewhere in the dark, there was a chuckle. "Back to the drawing board, it seems."

Trip decided that he definitely wanted to hear Malcolm sing at the Christmas party.

* * *

_-The eleventh thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Stale TV specials -_

"I don't believe this."

Hosi threw her padd down on the table with a frustrated sigh. Next to her, Travis looked up from his baked potato with broccoli.

"What's up? More people asking for Christmas cards?"

Hoshi glared at him; he'd somehow managed to sweet-talk her into writing _all _of his cards, and several for his buddies in Astrometrics. She suspected that he'd made quite a business advertising her literary talents.

"No," she said pointedly. "It's the movie schedule for this week."

The Captain had allowed Trip to have two movie nights in celebration of the upcoming holiday, one on the twenty-second, and one on the twenty-third of December. The crew, eager as they were to party a little after five months without shoreleave, had already made plans to bring mulled wine and cookies, and some of Chef's special holiday punch.

"What's playing?" Travis picked up the padd and scrolled down the list. "'A Christmas Carol In Space'?" he quoted, frowning. "Not that awful movie that was released back on Earth two weeks ago?"

"The very same." She sighed.

"The one in which the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come is a Klingon?" Travis asked in a pained tone of voice.

Hoshi nodded. "Read on. It gets worse."

"'Silent Night, Bloody Night.' That sounds like something Malcolm might say."

Hoshi shook her head. "It's a remake of an old twentieth-century movie. Lots of blood and gore, it seems."

Travis scrolled further down. "'Meet Me On Jupiter Station.' Doesn't sound too bad, that one."

"I suppose it's all right, if you don't mind the oh-so-subtle Starfleet PR moments."

Sighing, Travis put the padd down. "Maybe we could talk to Trip, ask him to pick some decent movies."

Hoshi looked over to the corner of the messhall where the Chief Engineer was kneeling in the middle of cable drums and knotted-up garlands. He'd tied the top part of his uniform around his waist, but he still seemed to be sweating, his face red and his hair tousled. Malcolm was crouched next to him, frowning down at something that looked like a power distribution unit. Hoshi noticed that, although the messhall was pretty crowded, no one had chosen to sit at one of the tables close to the two men. As she watched, Trip turned to Malcolm and barked something unintelligible. The Armory Officer grumbled something in response and held out a power tool, which was impatiently snatched from his hand.

"Well, maybe not," Travis conceded. "How did he get Malcolm to help him with the lights?"

Hoshi tried her best to suppress a smile. "He promised to give him moral support."

"Moral support? What for?"

"He said he'd help him get out of joining the caroling group at the Christmas party."

Travis raised his eyebrows. "Something tells me that he's not going to get out of it."

Hoshi chuckled. "No way. But I'll tell Malcolm that Trip still owes him a favor, and what better way of getting his own back than making Trip join the group himself."

Travis stared at her. "You're an evil woman, you know that?"

She shrugged and dug into her lunch. "What can I say? We still don't have enough male voices."

* * *

_-The twelfth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:  
Singing Christmas carols -_

Applause rang out in the messhall; quite enthusiastic applause, as Malcolm was surprised to notice. Standing proudly in front of her little group of carolers, Hoshi beamed at the crowd.

"Thank you! Thanks, everyone!"

Next to him, Trip shifted his feet, and Malcolm took some comfort in the knowledge that he wasn't the only one who wasn't quite at ease with his new role as a musical entertainer. It was bad enough that he was singing about Frosty the Snowman in front of his subordinates; to make things worse, it turned out that he and Trip were the only men Hoshi had managed to blackmail into joining her group, so their voices rang out quite clearly. Malcolm wasn't sure yet whether that was a good thing or not.

"So, what would you like to hear next?" Hoshi asked, and immediately the crowd started to shout out suggestions.

"Santa Claus Is Coming To Town!"

"Rudolph!"

"Jingle Bells!"

"Deck The Halls!"

"Not that one, please," Trip groaned quietly. "I can never remember all the words."

"You didn't remember the words to the other songs, either," Malcolm whispered back. "Don't think I didn't hear you. You were singing 'good King What's-his-"

Hoshi gave them a stern look and they fell silent again, resigning to their fate.

"How about 'The Twelve Days Of Christmas'?"

The suggestion had come from the Captain, who was sitting at a table with T'Pol, obviously having a grand time. Malcolm wondered just how much of his enjoyment came from watching his Chief Engineer and Armory Officer caroling for the entertainment of the crew.

Trip glared in the Captain's direction. "I'm gonna get him for that."

"Quiet, please!" Hoshi had turned back to her choir. "Now, 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'; Lieutenant, you're the partridge, and Commander, you're the turtle doves. We'll sing the rest of the verses together."

Oblivious to the double glare she was getting, she raised her hands. "Now, on three; one... two..."

Malcolm wondered just how many eyes were on him at that very moment, and the thought did nothing to ease his nervousness. Dutifully, he repeated his solo line until the song was finally over, and breathed a sigh of relief when Hoshi announced that they'd take a little break. Under a final round of applause, the caroling group dispersed to mingle with the rest of the crew and grab some of the food. Malcolm let himself fall onto an empty chair and took a gulp from a glass of punch someone had left standing on the table.

"Tell me why I let her talk me into this."

Trip took the glass out of his hand and emptied it in one long swig. "Well, I don't know 'bout you, but I'm plannin on gettin' too drunk to remember _any_ of the words."

"Good idea." Malcolm looked around to see if he could spot more beverages he could reach without getting up. "Let's get pissed. She'll have to let us go then."

Trip grinned with renewed hope. "That's what I like to hear."

Resigning to the fact that he'd actually have to leave his chair again, Malcolm got up, a little unsteady already from the two or so glasses of punch he'd had before their caroling session. Well, maybe more than two, but he'd needed the Dutch courage.

"More punch all right?"

Trip nodded happily, and, unaware of the mistletoe twig stealthily pinned to his back, Malcolm began to walk over to the buffet table.

Crewman Cutler, Ensign DeSoto and Crewman Chen who happened to meet him on the way found themselves agreeing that there was quite a lot to be said for Christmas, after all.

FIN...

...and a very Merry Christmas to all my readers!

A Christmas cookie for everyone who leaves a review :)!


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